Begging You Please
by Mourir
Summary: YuBo WAVE!3:: Yuriy and Boris wished to fly. Be free.


Disclaimer: Bakuten Shoot Beyblade belongs to Aoki Takao

Notes: YuBo WAVE!3. Doesn't make too much sense, but I rather liked the idea.

and you know that nothing lasts forever

…

and I'll take off

…

open the wings

and let her fly

**gregory and the hawk**

They rarely saw butterflies where they lived – only in the picture books during lessons. They assumed it was because of the cold, unforgiving climate of Russia. It was mostly the stone walls that saw through most of their childhood. But they didn't know that.

How could Biovolt be that cruel? It couldn't.

Yuriy and Boris weren't friends (those weren't allowed), but they shared the same kind of past and the same kind of training and the same kind of thoughts. This was _partnership_.

And it was together that they liked to peer out of the barred windows at the dirtied snow, wishing that it could be warmer so that maybe, just _maybe_, they could catch a glimpse of real, actual butterfly. One with lots of colors, of course. Blue or even yellow – that was the beauty of butterflies.

If there was a point to their butterfly-searching, then they weren't aware of it. Eyes that lost their innocence years ago stared – sparkling with an emotion close to hope (perhaps it _was_ hope) – determinedly at the white, white snow. Eyes stared and stared and stared until they were roughly pulled away by _them_.

There wasn't a point.

_One day, Boris, we'll fly, too,_ Yuriy would say in a soft, hushed voice. Still too young. Boris sat unmoving, gaze trained ahead, hating and admiring at the same time. It has begun. _We'll grow wings and fly._

_We can't._

_We can. Fly to where they can't reach us. With the butterflies and birds._

The closest they could get were their soaring beyblades flying high over the dish, over their heads, over the crowds. They fought with a vigor – a desire to win for Biovolt and a desire to go higher. They were young and still caged within those four walls, embraced by wide plains of snow. Minds lost in a wonderland as their bodies fought for pride, for motives not their own and only their own.

It was in Japan when they saw their first butterfly. It had been dull, but they didn't give much of a shit. Wasting no effort, Yuriy quickly caught it, and Boris tried not to seem too interested as his captain tore the thing in half, tossing the two halves of the body in opposite directions. There was a scowl marring his expression.

"C'mon, Boris, or we'll be late," he growled, stomping towards their original destination, butterfly long forgotten.

For a lingering moment, Boris could only stare at the separated halves, feeling something reminiscent of regret (incomplete training, the fool). He didn't quite know what he was doing as he went out of his way to reunite the pieces. The act, somehow symbolic of something he couldn't place, softened the programmed frown that he'd learn to always show.

xxx

Boris fell first then Yuriy followed soon after.

While the BBA celebrated their marvelous and miraculous victory (Boris still thought his loss was a complete and utter _accident_, a fluke), Boris and Yuriy were once again in their wonderland, their madhouse. Clipped, crippled.

"Promise me something, Yuriy," Boris managed to mumble as the two sat on the ground with their backs against the walls. Their hands rested side-by-side, longing for a warm touch. "One day, we'll be free together."

"Together, Boris?" Yuriy replied in the same dead, hollow manner. "That's awfully romantic."

"Together. We're almost the same person, _captain_. What would we do without each other?"

"Don't call me that."

As if to make their commitment tangible, their hands inched towards each other, one on top of the other.

_I promise_.

Only together could they fly.

xxx

Boris thought that if butterflies existed in Russia, they would look as Yuriy did when he attacked with Wolborg. The sheer power, the beauty, the gloriousness of Yuriy during his battles were mesmerizing.

Yuriy Ivanov, he decided, was the Russian butterfly they'd been searching for as children. Boris wondered if he looked just as marvelous. He didn't think he did.

(Where were his wings?)

And just like when Yuriy tore that butterfly in half years ago, Boris looked down at ruined beauty once again. His captain held a faint dignity and power, still, and for a brief moment Boris felt a surge of pride slowly erase the insecurity he'd been feeling all day. He wondered when his captain would awaken again and lead him forward towards the sky.

He'd never really _hoped_ until that year, waiting by Yuriy's bed as he did. Every day. All day (for as long as he could).

How terrible it would be to break promises.

"If you break your promise, captain," he would murmur every night before he left, "I'll beat your ass."

Every night before he left, he would kiss the redhead's temple.

Hoping, hoping.

How nice it would be to fly.


End file.
